“I assure you I am most serious. I know that man intends to propose to me, and you are just in the humor to mix up our present misfortunes and his pretensions, and actually espouse his cause; but it's no use, George, no use whatever. I 'll not consent. Go downstairs, now. Stay, let me wipe those red eyes. Don't let that man see any trace of this sorrow about you; bear up quietly and well. You shall see that I do not give counsel without being able to show example. Go down now, and I 'll follow you.” As he left the room she sat down, and accidentally so as to see her face in the glass. The forced smile which she had put on was only slowly vanishing from her features, and she was shocked at the pallor that now succeeded. “I _am_ looking very ill,” muttered she. “There's no denying it. That man will certainly see how this news has struck me down, and I would not that he should witness my want of courage. I wish I had--no, I don't. I 'd not put on rouge if I had it; but I wish we were alone to-day, and could talk over our fortune together. Perhaps it 's as well as it is.” And now she arose and descended the stairs hastily, as though not to give herself time for further thought. Cutbill was in the act of cautioning L'Estrange against speaking of the Lisconnor misfortune to his sister when she entered the room. “Do you forget me, Miss L'Estrange,” said he, coming forward, “or am I to remind you that we met in Ireland?” “Forget you, Mr. Cutbill,” replied she, laughingly; “how can I forget the charming tenor who sang second to me, or the gallant cavalier who rode out with me?” “Ay, but I got a roll in a duck-pond that day,” said he, grimly. “You persuaded me to let the beast drink, and he lay down in the water and nearly squashed me.” “Oh, you almost killed me with laughter. I had to hold on by the crutch of my saddle to save myself from falling into the pond.” “And I hear you made a sketch of me.” “Have you not seen it? I declare I thought I had shown it to you; but I will after dinner if I can find it.” The dinner was announced at this moment, and they proceeded to the dining-room. “Taste is everything,” said Cutbill, as he unfolded his napkin, and surveyed the table, decked out with fruit and flowers with a degree of artistic elegance that appealed even to _him_. “Taste is everything. I declare to you that Howell and James would pay fifty pounds down just for that urn as it stands there. How you twined those lilies around it in that way is quite beyond me.” As the dinner went on, he was in ecstasy with everything. “Don't part with your cook, even after they make a bishop of you,” said he. “I don't know the French name of that dish, but I believe it's a stewed hare. Might I send my plate twice?” “Mr. Cutbill saw the Bramleighs at Como, Julia,” said L'Estrange, to take him, if possible, off the subject of the entertainment.